


talk to me

by ironarana



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Tony Stark Has A Heart, author projects her own personal problems onto fictional characters, to cope, tw depression, tw mild self recrimination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 02:07:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21348487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironarana/pseuds/ironarana
Summary: This is something sleep can’t fix, no matter how much he does it. This is darkness taking the day hostage by four in the afternoon. This is being tired no matter what time it is and wishing the day was over before it’s even begun.This is seasonal depression and Peter hates it almost as much as he hates himself.
Relationships: Flash Thompson (minor), Irondad & Spiderson - Relationship, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones (minor), Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 31
Kudos: 123





	talk to me

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from "talk to me" by cavetown

It settles heavy on his chest like an anvil and he knows, before he can even fully open his eyes, that it's going to be a bad day.

It's mid-November and all the days are blending together in a grey, dreary haze. Sunshine doesn't spill sweetly through his curtains like orange juice in the mornings with a warm, homemade breakfast. Now, mornings are dismal and barren like a dystopian wasteland with the exception of the rain Peter can hear plastering itself against the window.

As he stirs beneath the blankets, it feels like the spongy marrow of his bones has been replaced with solid lead, through and through. Just moving tires him.

He imagines the whole day laid out in front of him: school, a car ride, the lab, a car ride back, home and finally sleep. He runs through it all and the weight slowly begins to crush his lungs until they're tight enough that it hurts to breathe.

He checks his alarm clock and sees he has five minutes. Five minutes to rest until he can't anymore. He shoves the heels of hands into his eyes which burn with exhaustion. He was up until two in the morning working on calculus and physics homework. And now, he has a pounding headache from lack of sleep.

He doesn't want anything more than to just sink into the soft, worn mattress and just sleep the whole day away. The blankets enveloping him are warm and heavy like a hug because it's November, and it's cold, so he layers more blankets over himself than he usually would.

The alarm goes off.

Slowly, he trudges from his room to the bathroom with enormous, weighted effort. His footfalls are heavy and his head pulses excruciatingly. Black and white flashing flecks speckle his vision and then begin to dissipate as he goes through the grueling motions of brushing his teeth and throwing on clothes to wear to school: a sweatshirt and sweatpants because he doesn't really want to wear _ actual _ clothes today.

In the kitchen, he monotonously packs a bare bones lunch. An apple, a sandwich, water. Even with the lights on, it's so dark in the apartment. There's no sun. Peter wants so badly for the sun to come back.

After he makes sure he has his homework stowed away in his backpack, he shoves his lunch in, slips on his shoes and heads out the door to catch the train.

-

New York is bleaker than he's ever seen it.

Everyone seems to be caught in the throngs of miserable weather. Or maybe their typical, rude behavior is merely being amplified through the lens of Peter's own terrible mood. Either way, multiple people bump into him at the subway stop without bothering to apologize and he barely finds standing room on the train before it lurches forward and takes off for Midtown.

He leans his head against the pole he's clutching. It's nice and cool and he closes his eyes as a temporary relief coarses sweetly through his system. The weight on his chest eases just a little and he breathes out, slow and steady. A reprieve, if only for a few minutes. He relishes it.

When he opens his eyes, the train is pulling into Midtown.

He treks across the football field where the players are running drills, even through the chill mist. It feels like an enormous, Hobbit worthy journey just crossing the field and climbing the stairs, his muscles aching terribly in protest.

Inside the school, everyone is so painfully loud Peter winces as all the clamor crashes into his ears like a tidal wave. He shrinks in on himself, shoulders hunching and head bowing, as he navigates along the fray and to his locker, where he has to spin in his combination twice before it opens. He shoves one book in, takes another out. Then realizes it's the wrong one. Shoves it in, takes the right one out.

Then he heads to history class and he doesn't care that he falls asleep, heads in his crossed arms on the desk.

He closes his eyes and when he wakes, he's in calculus.

Closes his eyes again and when he wakes, he's in English. Each time with no recollection as to how he got there.

He wonders if it even happened at all.

At lunch, Ned is inexplicably absent. Peter distantly theorizes that it's probably the flu which has been circulating around school. It probably knocked Ned out too and he'll be back tomorrow with a prep in his step as per usual.

So he sits at their lunch table alone. Well, alone with MJ, who sits at the end of the table with a book about Harriet Tubman in her hand, loose tendrils falling into her face that she sweeps back with a hand.

Peter leans over and buries his head in his arms. It's too loud to sleep here. His hoodie is doing little to drown out all the noise. He can't even hear his own heartbeat.

Instead, he just stares emptily at Michelle, reading, and when he blinks she's gone and he startles when he realizes she's right in front of him.

He jerks upright and then sighs, long and exasperated. Not with her. Just with being.

Her brow is knitted together with concern, eyes scrutinizing him but they're a little soft around the edges. It's touching.

"You okay?" she asks.

Peter nods, swallows hard. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replies, voice choked and quiet. His throat is thick with wetness.

Michelle's gaze narrows and then she drags her backpack out from underneath the table. She rifles around inside and then pulls out a thin stack of papers, wrinkled where it's pinched between her thumb and index finger. She extends them. Time lapses and he blinks and then, they're on the table and Peter can't reconcile what's just happened other than she must've been holding them out for quiet some time before just setting them down.

He looks at her nervously. Her stare is intent, patient, as she waits for him to catch on. He's never been a slow study but today is an exception. He slides them closer. They're photocopies, he can tell by the quality. A few letters are faded but there's no mistaking Michelle's handwriting, tight and small.

He wants to ask her what they are but she answers before he even has a chance.

"They're notes from history and English. And Flash is gonna give you his from calc. Don't worry, I didn't blackmail him or anything."

A short, loose laugh escapes him, all breath. His eyes sting with tears he refuses to let fall. He bites down on the inside of his cheek and forces a lopsided, grateful smile.

"Thank you," he whispers, tight.

"Don't mention it," MJ replies. "There's lots on Jim Crow laws so, just be prepared for that."

He expected nothing less.

-

** Peter (12:45pm): **  
_ Hey Happy, I'm not feeling good so you don't have to take me to the lab today. Can you just tell Mr. Stark that I can't make it? _

** Happy (12:50pm): **  
_ Thanks for letting me know. I'll tell him you canceled. Feel better kid. _

-

True to her word, Flash begrudgingly hands him notes on calculus before school lets out and then Peter catches the train home. Darkness is beginning to crawl over the city and he can feel it seeping into the fractures of his very being. It's like a poison. He feels sick of it and tired as the train rattles along back to Queens. He clutches the pole for whatever it’s worth, legs unsteady beneath him. He sways a little. He could bend over backwards for how monumentally heavy his backpack is.

Peter closes his eyes again and when he opens them, the train is arriving in Queens. He gets off and wanders and wanders and wanders and then he's home, shoving his key into the lock where the patina is scratched.

He drops his backpack off at the door and it lands with a thunk on the floor. After slipping his shoes off, he goes right to his bedroom, opens the door and then freefalls right into bed, sinking into the mattress and tugging the blankets around his shoulders. He doesn't think he's been more grateful in his entire life for a bed, blankets and pillows.

He closes his eyes and passes out immediately.

And so, Peter sleeps. He sleeps like the dead, sleeps like he's never slept before, sleeps like he never had the chance to until today. And when he wakes, it's pitch black in his room and he has no idea what time it is.

Through the dense fog in his brain, he can hear the muffled sound of his phone vibrating.

Somewhere in the covers, he gropes around with a hand and then finds it, his fingers curling around it. He doesn't even look at the caller ID he just swipes right and presses it against his ear.

"Who isit?" he mumbles, voice drenched in sleep.

_ "Wow. Is that any way to greet someone who gifted you a multi-million dollar piece of hardware?" _

Peter sighs deeply. "No," he mutters and yanks the blanket over his head, like it'll block out Tonys voice from where it comes over the receiver.

There's a pause. Peter can just imagine the puzzled expression Tony must be wearing over the phone, brows drawing together, curiosity ringing his irises.

When Tony speaks, his teasing tone is gone in favor of grave concern.

_ "Is everything okay, Pete? You don't sound like yourself, I know Hap said you weren't feeling too good but I figured I'd check in. You sick?" _

Physically, no. Mentally? Every single thought is congested and it hurts to breathe, his lungs aching with every breath. His heart feels swollen and bulbous and his head burns with a migraine.

This is something sleep can't fix, no matter how much he does it. This is darkness taking the day hostage by four in the afternoon. This is being tired no matter what time it is and wishing the day was over before it's even begun.

This is seasonal depression and Peter hates it almost as much as he hates himself.

"No," he murmurs, so quietly he's not even sure Tony hears him.

But he hears him. Tony always hears him, whenever he talks, whenever he doesn't. He hears the lapses in the words, reads the writing between the lines.

_ "Okay," _ Tony replies, light. Simple. _ "You just hang tight. I'll be there soon." _

Then the line goes dead and Peter just turns back into the covers and closes his eyes without sleeping. He listens to the sounds outside his window. One neighbor howling at the other. Old Joe's mangy tabby cat yelping inconsolably upstairs. A bottle smashes in an alley: Queens.

He doesn't know how much time passes but he must fall asleep again because when he wakes again, it's to something sizzling and a savory smell wafting through the air.

It rouses him from his bed. He crosses his arms against his chest and shuffles across the hall into the kitchen only to see Tony standing at the stove in jeans and a tee shirt. A loaf of bread is out on the counter with a bag of cheese slices.

Tony looks up when he enters and his mouth slants into a smile. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty. How you doing?"

Peter shrugs indifferently. "Okay." It doesn't hurt so much to walk at least. He doesn't feel so heavy but it's still there, deep in the marrow of his bones.

Then it occurs to him, belatedly, that Tony is here, cooking, in the apartment and Peter never even gave him a key.

"How did you get in here?" Peter croaks, voice rusted from disuse.

Tony looks almost affronted. He scoffs. "You're really asking that? Do you know who I am, kid? Come on. I've seen Sherlock Holmes and it doesn't take a genius to break into an apartment."

Peter inwardly rolls his eyes and can only hope the landlord won't be mad if there's any damage. If there is, then Tony is going to take the fall and foot the bill for it. And if Peter doesn't make sure of it, May certainly will.

"I'm making grilled cheese," Tony says, sudden. "And tomato soup, you like tomato soup right?"

Peter nods. "Yeah."

"Good, cause this is Maria Stark's secret recipe. I'll have to swear you into secrecy."

Peter doesn't reply. His lips twitch and that's the only semblance of a smile he gives.

Tony seems a little disappointed at it. He knows something is wrong, just not what. There's no pity encircling his eyes, just sadness. Peter knows he can't stand people in pain anymore than Peter himself can.

He wishes he wasn't in pain. He wishes so badly it turns him sore and bruised that this is something Tony can fix. _ Please help me, _ Peter begs inwardly. _ Please help me, Tony, please. _

He blinks and Tony is in front of him, and his hand is squeezing Peter's shoulder.

"Tell me the truth," Tony asks, gently, his eyes peering down into Peter's. He wonders if Tony can see right down into the meat of his soul. If he can see how battered and tender it is. "Are you okay?"

The truth is it's November. And Peter can imagine all the days laid out in front of him, butterflied at his feet. All the grey, bleary days blending together until one is indistinguishable for another. He doesn't know how he'll survive the winter. If he'll live to see the flowers blooming with the promise of spring and the sun breaking through the clouds with the promise of warmth.

He is so, so, so tired.

Peter shakes his head and something in his chest splits, widening and widening until it's chasmic and swallowing him whole. His shoulders hitch as his breathing does and then, Tony is folding him into an embrace and Peter is crying his eyes out, the tears hot and fast.

He cries and cries and Tony holds him and sways, one hand rubbing circles soothingly over Peter's back and the other stroking Peter's hair.

"Shh, shh, shh," Tony assures. "It's okay, you're okay. I'm right here, Peter. It's okay."

Tony's shirt begins to grow damp as Peter clutches at the fabric, desperate to tether himself to something steady.

"Please help me," he whimpers. "Please help me, Mr. Stark, please."

"Okay," Tony says softly. "Okay, I'll help you. Whatever it is, you name it, I got it."

Peter breathes a wet laugh. Just through the well loved fabric that smells like coffee, he can hear Tony's heartbeat: calm and rhythmic. He's not lying. He's not lying.

Tony slowly tugs Peter away and looks him in the eye. Tony's gaze is so unbearably kind it's almost gut wrenching.

"You're not gonna walk through this alone, okay? I promise. As long as you're still here, you have me. Copy?"

Peter nods, sniffles. "Copy."

He goes to swipe a tear away but Tony's hand moves to cup the side of Peter's face, square thumb pad brushing away the tears. His hands are calloused yet strong and warm.

"Now, before I burn your grilled cheese and soup," Tony says. "How about I make you dinner and then we can talk?"

And they do. They eat and they talk and Tony makes Peter take a shower and he spends a long time underneath the hot stream of water. When he walks out, he feels better. Clean, more human. His hair curls with dampness as he heads out to the living room to see Tony fiddling around with the DVD player.

Peter settles down into the couch and then Tony beside him as he turns on the tv. _ The Force Awakens, _ one of Peter's favorites.

The movie starts. Tony wraps an arm around Peter to draw him close and rubs his shoulder as Peter nestles against Tony's side.

The weight has eased a little. He knows it might always be there, from November to March, but that doesn't mean he has to bend. Not when he has someone to help carry the load.

As the credits begin to roll, Peter murmurs into the still air, "Thank you, Tony. For everything."

Tony sighs, content. "No problem, kid. No problem at all."

And Peter listens to Tony's heart.

And he knows he's not lying.

_ (Sometimes when the weather changes, we do too. Sometimes we can't help it. But that doesn't mean we have to carry the weight alone. It just means we lean on those who can help us bear it.) _

**Author's Note:**

> so i had a Bad Day yesterday and wrote this and it definitely helped me feel a bit better. i'm sorry for anyone who can relate but also, just remember you're not alone in this and there are other people who feel the same way you do. 
> 
> thanks for reading this, please leave a kudos and/or a comment if you enjoyed and i'll talk to you guys later. love you guys. 
> 
> wattpad: ironarana  
ko-fi: ironarana


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